...and I have the next four days to spend making an effort.
Today all of my emails will begin with "I'm so sorry it's taken me so long...."
I'm reading George Sand's Journal Intimé, which I picked up at the I-forgot-to-mention-how-awesome Book Barn, a must-stop indoor/outdoor wonderland for bibliophiles in Niantic, CT.
She makes me almost miss my own journal, which I abandoned for love. (Can only withstand a single confidante.). But I'm also so relieved not to be as emotionally stormy as that former me. She's thirty in it, and "still beautiful." Exhausted at the ass-end of her affair with Alfred de Musset. In letters she never sent, she throws herself wholly into romantic indulgences, manic highs and lows. I don't agree she never meant the pages to be read--hers is a literary performance. She feels both proud and enthralled by her passion but also somewhat ridiculous, which are the times she flashes with rage.
Earlier I repaired the vacuum cleaner, and I'm feeling sneezy. What a contrast, eh?
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